Ciauciesco & Verona

Acum vreo 10 minute, la tigara.

Apare un macaronar de-ala tipic, genu’ care se chinuie la 45 de ani sa para macho grande, gigolo mortal etc, nu intru-n detalii si nu-l descriu, ca stiti genu’.

Ma bate pe umar prieteneste si-mi striga CIAUCIESCO! Ma uit la el sictirit “ceausescu?”. Yes, that guy. Aha. “we shot the motherfucker, tell berlusconi to get ready, he’s next”. Liniste.

“So you’re Romanian?”
“Yes, I am”
“Romania killed my home town”
“Gipsies?”
“No, the shoe factory moved to Romania”
“Yeah, I know, italians are too lazy to make shoes, no surprise”

Liniste

“I went to Romania once, in 1985. A long black car passed by and my friend grabbed me and told me to hide, it was the secret police”
“He lied to you, we just don’t wash our cars in Romania, it’s easier to steal clean ones from Italy”

Liniste

“Lots of Romanians in Italy”
“Yeah, I know, lots of cheap whores there, we love cheap whores”
“Whores???”
“Yeah. Take Juliet for example. Bet she loved some hard cock up up her ass, eh?”
“Who’s Juliet?”
“Juliet? A cheap whore, works at a bar downtown, La Trattoria Capulet, ever been there?”
“No, where’s that?”
“Next to the shoe factory”

Liniste

“I’m gonna head back in, it’s freezing here”
“Yeah. I heard the weather’s nice in Italy”.

Liniste mormantala.

Pula mea. Unii oameni chiar nu se prind ca n-ai chef de conversatie. Ciauciesco my ass.